In Perfect Silence, On Your Birthday
by greyslostwho
Summary: It's late October when he finally catalyses the change, and your birthday, surprisingly." Birthdays Series number 1.


**Written for Immortal Spud Thief, for her birthday tomorrow. :)**

**Shameless fluff.**

**In Perfect Silence, On Your Birthday**

You cry after the Christmas party the year he brings Carrie, or Caroline, or Carol or whatever-her-name-is that he's been "seeing" - however casual he makes that sound - for three months now. You've had a lot to drink, granted, but not enough to not feel ashamed as Janet hands you a glass of water in Leo's kitchen and puts her arm slightly awkwardly around your shoulder.

Leo sits opposite you at the breakfast bar, nursing a strong cup of coffee, top buttons open on his shirt and looking slightly flushed - he'd gotten a little overexcited dancing that evening, as had everyone, but you - quite out of character - had lurked in the corner and pointedly not looked in Harry's direction all night.

You sip the water and ignore Janet's kind words...

_It might not last... She's not as pretty as you... Maybe that's what he wants, to make you jealous._

You deny all jealousy and settle yourself on Leo's couch after they both refuse to let you go home alone.

**

You wake with the worst hangover you've ever had, and you nearly throw up as you try and funnel down some of Leo's strong coffee. You don't exactly look your best when you leave for work, blonde wisps falling out of the order you'd tried to force upon them before you've even started. But you plaster a smile over your face and walk in with your head held high.

He doesn't say anything about the previous night... but he's wearing a clean, new shirt, which makes you slightly happier, assuming he's been home, not out all night. You wonder if he might not even have noticed your behaviour - the most you get out of him is a snarky comment about a hangover as you flinch when someone, probably Charlie, slams the door.

**

You meet a _nice criminology professor _a few months later, with a slightly too wide smile and reddish brown hair that's not long enough for you to run your fingers through. You fight through a semblance of four dates, and as you invite him in on the fourth (conservative, for you, that is) he gives you a sympathetic smile and asks you how long you've been in love with this Harry, because he's all you've talked about all night.

You nurse this particular long-in-coming revelation with a double Barcardi before bed that night, and feel all the worse for it in the morning.

**

Harry breaks up with Carrie/Caroline/Carol, and you smile slightly too wide, and you think he notices, because there's a slight glint in his eyes you can't quite read. The two of you watch war movies you don't really follow, drink copious amounts of red wine and fall asleep on his sofa, your arms and legs intertwined, and as you drift off you know it's a bit like stepping into the hormone riddled brain of a teenage girl, but you feel all warm and fuzzy inside with his arms around you and your head resting on his hard chest, warm through his thin shirt.

You wake up with neck ache and back ache and probably really bad morning breath, but his legs have somehow gotten even more tangled in yours during the night, and he's still sleeping, and mumbling something in his sleep, something that sounds suspiciously like your name...

You don't want to wake up yet, so you snuggle your head into his neck, and despite the drinking last night and the takeaway and the sleeping on the sofa thing, he smells nice, and you can't help wishing you had more hours of half-light left, that the sun creeping through the window wasn't criss-crossing your face, that you didn't have to get up, go home, shower, go food shopping.

He shifts, and you're pretty sure his arms tighten around you and his lips turn into your hair.

But you're not sure, and so you lay still, and imagine this is your always.

**

There are so many more nights like that, just the two of you curled up together, talking or watching television or simply staying close, in perfect silence. Boundaries fall away, slowly, and even if you don't notice the gradual progress you can't help but see it when Janet comments on it, when Leo raises his eyes. Harry stops in the morgue and tucks a blonde curl behind your ear, lingering too long, you're pretty used to him sleeping shirtless on your couch if you've been up doing paperwork all night - he hugs you more than is necessary.

It's a gradual change, a gradual shift, and then you seem to stop, reaching some sort of equilibrium.

**

It's late October when he finally catalyses the change, and your birthday, surprisingly. It's been colder than other years, and although you, Harry, a heavily pregnant Janet and Leo went out for a meal the night before, something felt too electric with Harry for you to deal with, and, frightened, you climbed into a cab before he could say anything about going home with you, not meeting his eyes.

And now it's your birthday, and it's a Sunday, and your father rang you earlier and you hung straight up, and you met up with a few women you knew from university, but they all have husbands and children and talk about schools and kids' movies and the National Curriculum until you're convinced you're missing out on something. You make your goodbyes quietly, and you know as you leave they'll be commenting the moment the door closes on how Nikki's changed, but you're not on that page anymore. You smile to yourself slightly bitterly as you take out a bottle of wine by yourself when you get home, and you really wonder about Harry, and everything he is and isn't to you, and how you can't be a lot to him, if he hasn't even called, on your birthday.

**

The knock on the door startles you - you're engrossed in CSI reruns, your third glass of wine swinging between your fingers.

You rush to open it, wondering if the post is just really really late.

What appears to be a bouquet of flowers with legs is on your doorstep.

For a moment, you are genuinely confused, and then the bouquet (and it's a really really nice, huge bouquet, the kind you get made specially) steps through your door and pokes a second head round and has the face of Harry Cunningham.

You practically feel your face lighting up.

"Happy Birthday." he breathes in that low voice that knots your stomach, and thrusts the flowers into your arms.

And because of the wine, and the friends who aren't really friends anymore, and the fact that you thought he hadn't bothered with your birthday, you start to cry.

**

Your front door swings closed behind you, and Harry's shoved the flowers onto a table somewhere, and you're crying, but his arms are around, and it's not quite like a hug he's given you before.

"Why the bloody hell are you crying, woman?" he asked, smiling widely.

That's when he closes the gap between you, and your heart thumps three times in your chest as he moves towards you, and then your lips meet.

There's a kind of shock, at first, his hands putting pressure on the small of your back, pulling you into every curve of his body, and he's lean and solid and that warmth in your lower belly increases ten fold.

The pause is only momentary, and you're devouring his mouth, all of a sudden, like you haven't eaten in weeks. He drives you insane, but you're pretty sure that from now on, that's the way you're going to like it.

He tastes of chewing gum - the spearmint kind you like, not the peppermint kind that makes you shudder - and apples, and then blood, just slightly, as you tug on his lip with your teeth, breath catching in your throat.

Breathing seems trivial, though, now.

**

The pair of you make it to the sofa, and Harry crawls on top of you, never letting your lips leave him, not for a second, and his hair's the perfect length for you to run your fingers through it, not like your criminology professor. He's left your lips now, and his mouth is trailing down your neck, and although you have no idea how the two of you went from shy sofa-cuddling and watching movies to this in what seemed like no time at all, you know you'd rather he didn't stop. Ever.

He only needs a little encouraging, and when your hands find your way to the seat of his jeans, that seems to do the trick.

And then he's gasping against your mouth but pulling away, looking so deep into your eyes you feel like the world's biggest cliche, the world's happiest hormonal teenage girl.

"I'm not sure you know how long I've wanted to do this..." he breathes, and you catch his lips with your own.  
"Ditto." you hiss as his hands snake under your jumper, and he laughs, a low rumble against your body.  
"Doesn't count." he manages, and it's your turn to laugh this time as you give him another delicate squeeze and look up at him with wide eyed innocence.

"Ok... Harry Cunningham..." you punctuate each word with a kiss, "I've wanted to..." your jumper's discarded on the floor, and you reach for the zipper of his jeans, wiping that grin off his face, "...screw your brains out... on my sofa... for a while now..."

With the last words, he's kissing over your neck, across your collarbone, and you lose all semblance of coherent thought.

**

"You are beautiful, Nikki Alexander." he breathes as he lowers you onto your bed for round two (okay, round four).

And you smile ridiculously, because his eyes are so intense and sincere and his voice is thick, and if you didn't know better you'd think he was getting all emotional.

You tug him back down.


End file.
